


You Taste Like Cheap Ramen

by Aondeug



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Domestic hatefluff, F/M, Human Blackrom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-23 00:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aondeug/pseuds/Aondeug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose and Bro have been dating for some time, holding a steady and by all accounts sound relationship. Yet it is one bound not by love and affection, but by pronounced hatred for the other. Still, spitefully burning the coffee or no, they are a couple and a domestic one at that. A fill for HSWC 2013 bonus round 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Taste Like Cheap Ramen

**Author's Note:**

> As stated this was a fill for the first bonus of the Homestuck Shipping World Bup 2013. The round's overall prompt was quotes. The piece meanwhile is a fill for sofuckingella's prompt as seen here:
> 
> Bro/Rose
> 
> "You really just don't look like the kind of guy who needs to meet girls over the internet." - Hayley Stark, Hard Candy

When you had at last gone through with the intent to meet him, turning at the last your relationship into something society at large could respect a fraction more, you had been quite excited. A good friend of yours described you as "giddy" even, making sure to keep an eye on how much you drank the week before the date. It was needless fussing you felt and still do. Honestly, if she had anything to warn you of it was of your own self. Now you look up at the ceiling, bleary eyed and questioning why you stayed the night again. Rolling onto your side and burrowing deeper in between the duvet you reason that it's because he has a decent bed. Heavenly really, and you want to curse him for having such a luxury. Not because he has more funds than you, oh no. Merely because he could be assed to purchased it in the first place. One of the few things he could be driven to do for himself, you think while looking at the time. Far too late already than to allow for you to laze about any longer. Dammit.  
  
As if to remind you of your duties to your education a text arrives from Kanaya. Reading through the message, still curled up as you are, you can't but quirk a small grin. The fact that she knows so very well is both relieving and frustrating. Not nearly so much as the knowledge that she's right though. Mornings shall ever be your biggest foe and the thought that he's likely going to meet it after you is the one thing that truly drives you to abandon your imperialistic conquest of his bed. Pushing yourself up and onto your feet you listen intently. There is a distinct lack of fumbling about the kitchen (graceful and silent as he is elsewise he is anything but upon waking). Pleased you grin widely, filled with a delicious taste of spite. Now you can wash up and dress and, though it pains you to ignore your terrible excuse of a routine this day, you forgo coffee and glaring at the fridge for an hour first. No, you carefully and meticulously prepare yourself for the day. Because that asshole will likely want to do so himself before you. Alas you're on top for now and by god you will fight tooth and nail for this position.  
  
To continue your efforts at war you stride confidently into the living room and then the kitchen. Like his bedroom they're something of a ramshackle mess. That bowl of salsa is still on the coffee table where it was last night and you're sure you tripped on a smuppet. Has anyone felt the inclination to fix this? No, of course not. Because he's far too much like yourself for comfort and, as you set to preparing coffee for the two of you, you feel a pit of self loathing in your stomach. All your worst faults he emulates so perfectly right down to the nigh endless stream of instant ramen he consumes. A cup looks up at you as you wait and, though you think of all the joking remarks from others about how the seemingly sophisticated Rose Lalonde lives worse than most college students when left to her own devices, you fill it with water and stick it in the microwave.  
  
He's stirring at last, such you can tell from the groans. You're torn now. To be silent or to announce your triumphs and treacheries? If the latter how would you go about it? Numerous possibilities run by you as he sighs heavily. He shuffles about on the couch, likely lazily sitting himself up. Silence is your decision ultimately because, thinking on last night, you're fairly certain he deserves nothing more. Or at the least he deserves a quip far more biting than you can devise right now. The microwave finally rings and you open it with a slight force driven by spite. Spite that you can ignore just for a moment because you have food. Near tasteless food with an awful texture, but food. Continuing to ignore him you hastily procure a fork and set to eating. As always you forgo class for efficiency, shoveling down the noodles as quickly yet neatly as you can. The sooner you finish eating the sooner you can put yourself to far more interesting and pressing tasks. Like leaving this apartment in a huff, fully aware of the fact that you'll text him in about ten minutes to complain of the people on the bus, insinuating that they remind you of him.  
  
At last he's managed to crawl his way from the living room to the kitchen. It only took groggy grumbling and near death by smuppet from the sounds of it. You deign to look up at him as he walks to the coffee maker, his steps still slow and stumbling. He knows and sends you a small glace that you acknowledge with a grunt. It's the food in your mouth, you say to yourself, you can't possibly wish him a good morning that he doesn't deserve.  
  
As he sets out two mugs he says, "And to what do I owe the pleasure of this crafty passive aggression fest?"  
  
"Oh? Feigning ignorance are we, Mr. Strider? Tell me, are you honestly so prone to flights of confabulatory amnesia or do you simply take joy in annoying me?" you shoot back calmly once you can. There is one fork full of noodle left. Drat. You'll have to find another reason to ignore him soon. Perhaps if you simply hold off on eating the last bite until a good moment arises? No, he knows your game far too well, and your eating habits for that matter. Such an assault is the recourse of the feeble minded. You'll just trash it even though you so often insist on finishing your meals wholly. That will do nicely, somewhat unexpected and still rude.  
  
Chuckling he pours two cups as he says, "So I'm Mr. Strider again? Quite the refined title for a man as lowly as myself, Miss Lalonde." You glare up at him for that. How dare he insinuate that you lack class and, furthermore, how dare he be right. As you look at him, clad in only a pair of boxers with those stupid hearts on them like in some cartoon you see a horrid reflection of yourself. The one you fight so hard against, or at the least fight to keep hidden. You're decent at that you think, especially online. He expected the same of you as you did him after all.  
  
He sits across from you, leg propped on the other and your cup is set in the near middle of the table. It peeks just ever so slightly onto his side and you can't suppress a small giggle at the gesture. Such a childish act, and a small one at that. He's diving into the subtle yet elementary realms of spite, both ironically and earnestly, weaving webs of wit that really only means something himself. And yourself, you think as you grab your cup. To answer him you straighten your posture, taking on the regal and austere form of a mother. Or at the least the highly romanticized sort you taunted your own with for years to stab at her alcoholism. If you're going to play as children then by god you're going to be thorough in it.  
  
"Quite," you say after taking a sip of the coffee, "You really just don't look like the kind of guy who needs to meet girls over the internet."  
  
A small twitch of his brow signals that he got the point. What was once simply a compliment on that first date was now turned against him, attacking from two sides. Grinning he says, "Those are some sick fires you're starting there. Was it my taste in wine, Rose? If so how about you school feed me some righteous justice in the form of proper drink suggestions."  
  
That comment causes you to wrinkle your nose in upset. Oh, he could have just outright said it, but no he had to just imply a stab at your past. That deviously cruel bastard, and you think that this is the only reason you're still with him. He puts up a damn good fight and can do it while mirroring yourself. How you hate this man and you how relish that. "I'll have to consult with my sister on that matter. Together I'm sure we can create a list of recommendations fit to my lofty standards," you say as you watch him squirm. Roxy may be a huge mess and the two of you fight more often than not, but at the least your sibling still talks to you.  
  
"Really? I thought your mom might have some suggestions. I mean with you're making up and all," he says before taking a drink. He damn near chugs the now lukewarm fluid and you want to smack the mug out of his hands. The two of you are devolving to more open assaults and it's exciting, but have some motherfucking class, bro.  
  
"We're working on contacting my father lately, so I really don't feel I should trouble the woman with such a momentous undertaking," you respond as you stand. Where as your parents, Strider? Oh wait. You don't know!  
  
Needing to maintain your ironic housewife routine further you take your cup to the sink, entirely ignoring the ramen. You turn it on and neglect to pour out the mug and rinse it. No, you just fill it with tepid water, creating a disgusting mix of coffee and tap water, and set it down. Perfect. Just like the smile you put on as you turn back to him. "Unfortunately I have to make a run for it now, dear. I have an appointment with a coked up hobo this morning," you say as he looks at you, a small cool guy grin on his face.  
  
"Share the details will you?"  
  
"And risk losing my license for breaching patient confidentiality? I wouldn't think of it."  
  
"Even though I'm your attractive unpaid intern, Doc? Harsh."  
  
"Even with that sassy miniskirt you wear to the office per uniform, Mr. Strider," you say while walking towards him. You're going to miss your first bus at this rate, but to hell with it and Kanaya's fussing. All that can wait while you lean down to kiss this man, your "boyfriend". He tastes of chips and morning breath, and you detest that he can get you the way he does. At the very least you know you get to him just as much. If you didn't he wouldn't meet your kiss with the fervent eagerness that he does. And you wouldn't have to pull yourself away, ignoring the wants of the both of you. Straightening yourself once more you say, "I still have that appointment to get to you know."  
  
"Course you do. Eh, I have a home movie to work on anyway. Thinking of going for a noir touch this time," he says with this tone of incredulous sincerity that only he can manage.  
  
"I look forward to it," you say before walking off. Once at the door he wishes you a good day, and you return it. Sincerely you think. Yes, you detest him more than anyone else, save perhaps yourself, but that's what keeps you coming back.


End file.
